Текст книги "State of Emergency"

Автор книги: Summer Lane

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Definitely both.

I finally exhale and scratch the side of my head, wondering what I should say. Something like, “Why didn’t you kiss me?” or “Why did I ask for the time?”

Chris says nothing, retreating into frustrating silence. I curl up into my usual ball and try to say warm as Chris flicks off the light. I crack one of the windows open so I can let my canteen fill up with water during the night. Eventually I fall asleep, but it takes me a long time, because I’m hyperaware of Chris’s body only a few feet away, and I know that he’s watching my silhouette in the darkness. It’s the weirdest, most puzzling thing I’ve ever experienced.

Well. Besides the end of the world.

At dawn, I sit up quickly because my feet feel cold.  Rainwater is dripping through the window, pooling all over my boots. I groan and wonder how long my feet have been marinating in rainwater as Chris wakes up. His arm is thrown across the truck bed like he owns it, the other arm behind his head. I study his face, finding myself smiling in the process. He looks relaxed, almost boyish in sleep.

I grab my canteen, happy to see that it’s pretty much completely filled with water. The sky is still dark but it doesn’t seem like it’s raining anymore. Awesome. No more water-based adventures.

Chris stretches and sits up, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s not raining,” is the first thing he says.

“Thank God.” I hold my hands up. “Literally.”

Chris smiles. “I agree. Breakfast?”

I dig into my pack. There are three packages of energy bars left, which means we’ve got about fifteen bars left. I hand him one, shutting the window. After we’re done with our gourmet breakfast, we get out of the truck. It’s colder than yesterday, a definite temperature change.

I button up my jacket, feeling bad for Chris because he’s only got his leather biking jacket – not exactly ideal for wet weather.

“So,” I say, staring down the road. “I guess we have a lot of walking to do.”

Chris puts his arm around my shoulders, a grin lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Fear not, little maiden,” he replies, “the road may be long, but the journey will be worth it.”

I stare at him.

“Seriously? Is that a line from Star Trek or something?”

Chris gives me an exasperated look.

“You’re impossible to impress,” he mutters, shifting his backpack.

As we begin walking I ask, “So what kind of stuff do you have in your pack? Any food? Maybe some candy?”

“No food,” Chris replies. “I was biking for the day in Santa Monica when the EMP hit. I was planning to go back to San Diego and eat dinner.”

“So do you live on the military base?” I grin. “Do you get to drive in a convoy everywhere?”

Chris looks highly amused.

“No,” he says. “I live in an apartment in Santee.”

“Santee? Why?”

“I’m not active duty anymore, Cassidy. I can’t live on a base.” He looks sad for a second, but quickly hides the emotion on his face. “It’s a beautiful city.”

“It’s dry,” I remark.

“It’s a desert by the sea.” Chris opens his arms out wide. “And I don’t think Culver City is any more lush with plant life than Santee.”

“Culver City happens to be within ten minutes of Hollywood, Beverly Hills and Santa Monica,” I point out. “I can visit the Walk of Fame on the weekends.”

“Santee is ten minutes away from the Pacific Ocean and the birthplace of California,” Chris argues. “Not to mention some of the best surfing spots on the coast.”

“You surf?” I ask, astonished.

“I’m a Navy Seal. I adapt to water.” He glances at me. “What about you?”

“Oh, sure. I adapt to water about as much as a rock does.”

He laughs.

“Not the aquatic type?” he teases. “I guess you don’t exactly have a swimmer’s build.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, crossing my arms.

“Swimmers are generally tall, with long arms and legs.”

“What? Nobody’s ever heard of a petite swimmer before?”

“Stranger things have happened,” he admits.

I mock punch him in the arm.

“Don’t make fun of my height,” I warn. “I’m tiny but mighty.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Chris reaches over and pinches my waist. “Sometime I’ll show you how to surf.”

 “Awesome. Just you, me and the circling sharks.” I give him a thumbs up. “Fun.”

“It will be,” he shrugs. “You’ll make a perfect decoy.”

“Meaning…?”

“You can distract the sharks while I surf.”

This time I really sock him in the arm.

“Brilliant military strategy, my friend,” I deadpan. “All those years of training finally paid off.”

We both burst into laughter at the same time, struck by the complete weirdness of the conversation. But somehow it’s nice to be able to talk to someone and just be totally ridiculous in the middle of a freeway littered with abandoned cars.

It makes it easier.

The day passes without any incidents. We have a few conversations about conspiracy theories concerning the EMP and the murder of innocent civilians. Where did the EMP come from? Was it from Omega? Was it from somebody else? Maybe it’s just some kind of freak hoax that will end up being uncovered later.

But then I remember all those dead bodies and I find that hard to believe. In the process of discussing all our delightful theories of doom, I learn a lot more about Chris. Where’s he from. Who he is.

“I joined the military because I didn’t have any money to go to college,” he told me earlier, both of us bored to death after seeing a green Honda for the hundredth time. “Becoming a Seal wasn’t something I planned on. I just wanted the training. I always liked beating people up, you know,” he jokes, “so the combat aspect of it appealed to me.”

“Unsurprising,” I remarked. “And you’ve traveled a lot, right?”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath, like it was hard for him to admit. “My first tour was in Iraq. That lasted for three years. Then I came back to base for a couple months and I got shipped out again. I went to Iraq three times, then Afghanistan twice. Hell, I’ve been everywhere.”

“What did you do there?” I asked, impressed with his travel repertoire.

“Fight the bad guys,” he stated simply.

“So you were a Seal for about nine years,” I said. “Man, that’s cool.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“And where’d you get that tattoo on your arm?” I asked, referring to the not-so-attractive cobra winding around his bicep. “Because dude, that does not seem like something your mother would approve of.”

Chris rubbed his jaw then, apparently trying to think of a good excuse.

“My mother…would understand.”

“Oh, so she doesn’t know?” I laughed. “Ha. Afraid to face the music?”

“You haven’t met my mother.”

“I’d like to shake her hand. Give her a medal.” I smirked. “You know, for putting up with you?” I paused. “On second thought, maybe I’d better save that medal for me.”

“You’re very funny, Cassidy,” Chris said. “Ha. Ha.”

“Yeah, I know,” I replied. “So why’d you’re family move from Virginia to California?”

“My mother was from here,” he explained. “She always wanted to move back. When I joined the military, they left. Got a nice piece of a land up in the foothills, set way back from the road. My brother’s doing a charter school.”

“Hey, that’s what I did!” I exclaimed. “It sucked.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because I had to go to class three times a week.”

Chris smiled. It was a beautiful sight. I stopped myself from sighing like a typical girl and asked him to repeat his question. I was too busy staring to hear.

“I said, lucky you,” he repeated, amused. “And you’re staring at me again.”

“I am not.”

“My smile must be dazzling.”

“Please.” I waved him off. “You’re so full of it.”

“No. I just notice things.”

He reached out then and touched my cheek – barely a feathery brush against my skin, but it sent a rush of heat from my face all the way to the tips of my toes. Ever since then the two of us have been trading not-so-secret glances at each other, which are starting to get kind of annoying. Every time I turn to look at him, he looks away, and when he looks at me and I turn to meet his gaze, I look away.

It’s getting weird beyond words.

We stop to rest a few times, propping up along the center freeway divider, discussing favorite television shows or pop artists. Chris is way more conservative than I am in that respect. I like my soap operas juicy. He doesn’t like them at all. So I educate him on the wonders of dramatic television while he tries to talk me into watching military reality shows.

Yeah. Probably not going to happen.

By the time it starts to get dark again, the rain clouds are breaking up just enough to let some blue sky through. It’s nice to know that the world won’t stay gray forever, even if World War III is upon us.

We make camp in another car again, sleeping lighter because there’s no rainfall and we’re used to the noise. Well, at least I am. Chris goes out like a light so I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Mr. Sandman to pay me a visit.

At around nine o’clock, I plug the earphones into the crank radio and tune into all the stations available. There’s not a single signal from any of them, and since I know what I know aboutOmega now, I’m wondering if the stations are really dead. Maybe they’ve just been commandeered. In that case, maybe somebody will rebroadcast one of Hitler’s speeches to make us feel at home under the new order. It would only be fitting.

I hate you, I think bitterly, thinking about whatever sick mind is behind all this crap. I hope somebody finds you and takes you down.

I try to relax after that. I don’t want to think about my dad because then I might start believing that he never made it out of LA and won’t be meeting me at the cabin. I don’t want to think about my mom working at the hotel in Culver City. I’d heard that she was on vacation out of state this week, so maybe she’s okay if she was out of the big cities. I didn’t have any friends back home, so besides my estranged mom and maybe-alive father, I don’t have many people to worry about.

Story of my life.

At ten, I drop off to sleep. I don’t dream about anything, but at midnight I wake up gasping for breath, freaked out. My heart is racing like I just ran a marathon and I feel my headache again, back in full force. I’m also covered in a cold sweat. Disturbed, I try to prop myself up along the inside of the car and get comfortable, but that just makes me dizzy.

I realize that I’ve probably caught some kind of cold after traveling for five days in the pouring rain with hardly any food, so I search around in my backpack for emergency protein supplements.

And that’s when I hear the voices. Real human voices that sound like they’re not too far away. I freeze like a deer in headlights, forgetting about my headache for a minute.

Male voices…I think. Several. A yellow beam of light flashes through the air and I drop to my stomach, terrified. Somebody is walking down the Interstate. Granted, they could be survivors, just like Chris and me, but they could also be thugs. Like crowbar boy back in Santa Clarita.

“Chris,” I whisper, tugging on his sleeve. “People. Hello. There are possible enemies outside with big flashlights!”

He snaps awake. I grab his arm to keep him from sitting up in front of the windows. “There are people outside,” I hiss.

Chris knits his brow, making a move to grab his gun and whatever other weapon he’s been keeping hidden in his pant leg pocket. I realize that my fingernails are digging into his skin because I’m gripping his arm so hard. “Sorry,” I whisper.

He pats my cheek. Under normal circumstances I would have blushed, but another flashlight beam slides across the road. Then two more. I peek my head over the bottom of the window, spotting three figures in the darkness. They’re tall, definitely masculine and they’ve got rifles slung across their backs.

“Big. Strong. Armed,” I breathe, sufficiently spooked. “If they find us, we’re toast.”

“We don’t know they’re our enemies yet,” Chris whispers, but he still makes sure his gun is loaded. He hands me a heavy Bowie knife. It’s sharp enough to split a hair. “Use this if you have to.”

I nod.

“But you can feel free to go ahead and shoot them first,” I advise. “I kind of suck with knives. I almost cut off my thumb once when I was slicing a tomato.”

Chris blinks.

“Really, Cassie?” He says, a tremor of laughter in his voice. “Focus here.”

 I flush.

“Sorry.”

Just then all the strangers’ flashlights go out. I will myself to remain motionless, to stop breathing.

Be a statue, I tell myself.

It’s totally dark, and their voices vanish altogether. Chris tenses beside me, his hand on my shoulder. Neither of us is willing to speak and give ourselves away.

Drip drop.

Rain?

I scream, taken completely by surprise as the trunk of the SUV pops open and three powerful flashlights are shined right in our faces. Chris throws his arm out in front of me, pushing me backwards, and holds his gun up defensively.

At first the light is so glaring that I can’t begin to see the faces of the people who are holding them. But I can hear their voices.

“Well,” someone says. Young male voice. “What have we got here?”

His face comes into view. He’s tall, short black hair cut to the scalp. Pinched face. The guy next to him is around the same age, same haircut. The last guy is younger than the rest, but stocky. Probably powerful.

The second two are also pointing their rifles at us.

Chris doesn’t lower his weapon, and for a few really long seconds everybody just kind of stares at everybody else like we’re all on the pause mode of a DVD player. “Put down the weapon, man,” the main guy says. The one with the black hair. “We’ll blow your head off if you try to shoot us.”

Chris, realizing that we’re literally backed into a hole (aka as an SUV), slowly lowers his gun and sets it on the floor. Guy Number Two grabs the gun and stuffs it into his belt, grinning.

“Pretty girl,” he says, looking right at me. “Real pretty. Remember me?”

If there were such a thing as a literal death stare, Chris would have killed all three of them with the intense glare he’s shooting their way. But I only stare, horrified. Because the guy I’m looking at is the same jerk that pushed me into the basin in Bakersfield. I can even see the bruises on his face where Chris beat the crap out of him.

Has he been tracking us?

“What do you want?” Chris asks, his voice a lot calmer than his body language.

“Just sniffing out rats, man,” the main dude replies. “We found a couple. Climb on outta there. You too, baby.” He holds his hand out to me. I ignore the gesture and step onto the pavement, Chris right beside me. “That’s right. Nice and easy.”

Main Dude looks me over, a creepy grin crawling across his face.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” He motions to the backpack. “Got anything this time?”

“No,” I lie.

Guy Number Two shoves the cold barrel of his rifle into my back.

“Don’t lie to us,” he warns.

“I’m not. There’s nothing in there but…feminine products.” I bite my lip, fighting the urge to smirk. “Seriously. You can have them if you want, but I can’t see why a couple of macho guys like you would be interested. I mean, that’s just wrong.”

Main Dude’s mouth twitches. He flicks his finger underneath my chin, inspecting my face like I’m some kind of exhibit. “She always like this?” he asks, looking at Chris.

He shrugs.

“You have no idea.”

Main Dude smiles. It’s probably the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen, because he leans just a little closer and says, “I think we can use you.” He turns to Chris. “You, on the other hand, I can’t think of a reason to keep alive.”

“Whoa!” I say, almost shouting. “Excuse me. Exactly what is your purpose for holding us at gunpoint in the middle of the remains of a freeway? I’d give you some change, but I seriously doubt if coins are worth anything anymore.”

“Just staying off the radar,” Main Dude says. “And enjoying it while we do.”

“Staying off the radar?” I repeat. “MeaningOmega’s radar, right?”

He nods.

“They’re everywhere, man.” He shakes his head. “Like roaches.”

“So let us go,” I say. “We’re just trying to do the same thing.”

“Yeah, but you’re a pretty girl, and I know a lot of guys back at camp that wouldn’t mind your company,” he replies like it’s no big deal. “Come on.”

He grabs me by the waist and pulls me forward. Scared, I don’t think about what I do. But I do it. I whack him across the face with my fist as hard as I can. He stumbles backwards, bewildered, just as Chris literally rips the rifle out of Guy Number Two’s hands and smashes the butt against his head.

Guy Number Two hits the ground, out cold – maybe dead – when I spin around, face to face with Guy Number Three. He grabs me by the hair and jams the heavy side of his gun into my stomach, knocking the air out of my lungs.

Gee, thanks for that.

I almost puke as I stumble backwards and hit the car, landing on my butt against the pavement. Three moves toward me, only to be put in a headlock by Chris, who slams his head against the car. He passes out, too. Which leaves Mr. Main Dude. But instead of standing like a man and fighting, he takes off into the night, running, screaming, “Over here! Come on!”

Chris bends down and hoists me up with one sweep of his arm.

“You all right?” he asks, only slightly winded. Like beating up a couple of guys is just a walk in the park. “Cassidy?”

I shake myself, my headache pounding more than ever thanks to my butt slam onto the ground. “Fine,” I murmur. “He’s going for help, you know.”

“I know.” Chris doesn’t let go of my hand as he rounds the car, grabbing our backpacks. He hands me mine and helps me put it on. Then he bends down and grabs his gun from Guy Number Two’s belt, also shouldering the shotguns from both unconscious cronies. “You take one,” he says.

“Are you kidding? I can’t shoot that thing.”

Chris slings both of them across his back.

“Fine. Let’s hustle before he comes back with more rocket scientists.”

“Scary rocket scientists,” I shudder.

Chris pulls me along, tossing me one of their flashlights. I catch it. It almost slips through my fingers because my hands are so sweaty.  Chris and I jog for a long time before we slow to speed walking. It’s freezing, which makes my headache even worse.

“Wait,” I say. “Slow down.”

“We have to keep going,” Chris replies, “otherwise that idiot might bring back a whole gang on us.”

“I just want to get some pain meds,” I plead, trying to find the medicine box in the dark. “My head hurts.”

“Still?” Chris voice sounds concerned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“People get headaches, Chris. It’s not like I got shot.”

I wince with the pain of the migraine, not able to tell if I’m sweating from a fever or from running for a half an hour. I flick the flashlight on as I dig around, finally closing in on the pain meds. I chew several up, much to Chris’s disapproval.

“That’s too many,” he says, looking frustrated. “Don’t overdose.”

“It’s children’s medication,” I snort. “Please.”

I zip the pack up and get to my feet. Shaky, sweaty, migraine-ridden. All in all, considering that it’s the end of the world, I’m in pretty good shape.

Right?

Chapter Nine

Twenty-four hours later, it’s one o’clock in the morning and foggy. The fog is so thick that I can’t see more than five feet in front of me. I keep close to Chris as we follow the road, listening to suspicious sounds or lights. My headache is still around, but it’s not pounding like it was thanks to the pain meds.

Glad I threw them in my backpack a couple of months ago.

We haven’t seen any sign of Main Dude or a comeback posse. Good thing, too. Chris would probably just shoot them all if they showed up. It’s a relief. I’d like to survive this trip without my traveling partner turning into a ninja warrior.

We eventually stop and kick back on the side of the road, deciding that nobody will be able to sneak up on us because nobody can see us through the fog. I have my hood thrown over my head because the fog is heavy – almost like a literal blanket pressing down on my skin.

When my headache starts to come back again – and the fever – I take some more pain medication to keep it away. I don’t feel great, but at least I’m not dying or anything. Chris doses off for a little while and I do the same, slumping next to him with my head on his shoulder.

We start moving at three thirty, having covered at least another fifteen miles since last night. “I should have been a cross country marathon runner,” I grumble, wishing we could just stop and hang out at a McDonald’s with a bunch of junk food.

Oh, man. Junk food.

I miss you…

“You’re doing very well,” Chris assures me. “Taking it like a soldier.”

“Thanks,” I say, uninspired.

We stop again at six o’clock, just as the sun is coming up. Only we can’t really see the sun through all the fog, so everything just turns from black to gray. At seven we pick up the pace and I spot a McDonald’s off the freeway.

“I can’t take it anymore!” I announce, feeling my stomach rumble. “I need more food than an energy bar to stay alive. I’m going to see if there’s anything left in there.”

“Cassidy, that’s highly unlikely,” Chris replies. “Besides, we need to stay on the road and out of the cities.”

“This isn’t a city,” I point out. “It’s a fast food shack in the middle of nowhere. Nobody lives here but a couple of coyotes and a sewer rat.”

Chris sighs, but he doesn’t argue. Which means he’s getting sick of eating energy bars, too. It’s been six days since we’ve had anything else, and they’re not exactly as yummy as a box of French fries.

I climb over the center divider, cutting across the freeway exit ramp towards the McDonald’s. There are no cars in the parking lot – or at the gas station that’s across the street. A more positive sign is that the windows haven’t been smashed out of the McDonald’s yet.

Hooray.

I jog towards it, envisioning a bunch of greasy hamburgers and calorie-bomb milkshakes. Nothing could be better. Or sound better, anyway. I walk up to the front door and push. It doesn’t budge, which means it’s locked. Of course.

Chris tugs on the handle a few times and walks around the building, checking all the entries and exit points. Finally he says, “We’ll have to break in.”

“Awesome,” I say. “I’ll kick in the door.”

“Thank you, but I think I’d better handle this part,” Chris replies, flashing a wry smile. “Excuse me.”

He pulls his Bowie knife out of my belt and slips it between the glass double doors. It takes him a couple of minutes to pop the lock, but because there’s no electricity, there’s no alarm. Sweet.

“After you,” Chris says, holding the door open.

I walk inside, impressed with his thief-like skills.

“You should have been a professional bank robber,” I tell him.

“Yeah, my mother would have really loved that.”

I laugh and take a look around. The whole place is pretty much untouched. The trash hasn’t been taken out so it stinks. It’s dark inside, but no place is darker than the kitchen behind the front counter. Chris twirls the Bowie knife around a few times and jumps over the counter first.

I crawl after him, not wanting him to reach the freezer before me. If there are hash browns in there, I claim them all. I flick on the flashlight we took from the thugs last night and shine it around the kitchen. There’s some gross food scraped along the floor, like people were running around and got it stuck all over their shoes. Probably when the EMP hit.

“There’s the freezer over there,” I say, pointing to a big steel box in the wall. “Let’s raid it!”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Chris warns. “It’s been a week since the electricity went out. If there’s anything in there it’s probably rotten.”

“Party pooper,” I snap.

Chris rolls his eyes. I keep the flashlight trained on the freezer as I tap the door. It’s halfway open. I frown. “Go ahead already,” Chris says.

“I’m going, I’m going.”

I open the door and look inside, seeing a bunch of empty steel shelves and melted icepacks. There are some disgusting packages of hamburger meat rotting in the back of the freezer. “Gross,” I mutter, shutting the door. “Great. It’s back to energy bars again.”

“Tried to tell you,” Chris shrugs.

“Forgive me for holding out some hope that there was still junk food left in the world.”

“You have the weirdest hopes.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

Ding.

Both of us freeze at the same time. Something metal hits the tile of the kitchen flooring and makes a noise like a bell. I whip my flashlight around, spotting a metal spoon spinning on the floor.

“What the…?” I mutter.

At that moment a shadow moves across the back of the kitchen, headed for the rear door. I can hear light footsteps. Chris immediately vaults over the counter and tackles the shadow. I scurry after him, buzzing with adrenaline.

Man. How many times are we going to have people sneak up on us?

I shine the flashlight and wrinkle my nose, shocked. Chris is holding a skinny kid by the shoulders. A girl. She’s got scraggly blonde hair with a bunch of clips in it, knee-high combat boots and rainbow fingerless gloves. “Wow, dude,” she says, looking angry. “You just tackled me? You weigh like three hundred pounds. Let go, will you?”

She kicks Chris in the leg. It doesn’t hurt him, but he let’s go anyway.

“Geez,” I say. “You’re just a kid.”

“You and me both, sister,” she shrugs, turning to face me. Her skin is extremely pale, almost cherubic. She looks about eleven or twelve. “What’s the big idea tackling me?”

“Sorry,” I say. “We thought you were dangerous.”

“I am,” she sniffs. “Anyway, this is my McDonald’s. Leave already.”

“Where are your parents?” Chris asks, frowning.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She only comes up to my shoulder. She’s got on long black leggings underneath a pink skirt. “Hellooo. Leave. Now.”

“Answer the question,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Where are your parents?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you alone?” I press. “Who’s taking care of you?”

“I can handle myself,” she answers, looking proud. “Bye.”

She turns to leave, but Chris catches her around the waist and holds her there. “You’re alone,” he states. “How long have you been hiding out here?”

The girl tries to wrestle herself out of Chris’s grip, but not even a sumo wrestler could break those iron arms. “I don’t know. A week, maybe? Everybody left when the electricity went out. I came here to find food.”

“Why didn’t your parents take you with them?” I ask, horrified.

“I don’t have parents, genius,” she replies. “I’m a foster child, okay?”

I sigh.

“I get it.” I look around the kitchen. “So. Is there any food left?”

She laughs.

“Like I would share it with you.”

Chris gives her his death stare and she swallows.

“Fine. This way.”

She shoves past me and tromps into the other half of the kitchen. She opens up a sliding door underneath the counter and pulls out a few boxes of cookies and sealed apple slices. “Happy now?” she demands.

“What’s your name?” I ask, dumping a bunch of apple packages into my pack. “How old are you?”

“Twelve. Almost thirteen,” she replies, picking at a cookie.

“And your name?” I say, putting my hands on my hips.

“Isabel,” she replies.

“I’m Cassidy,” I smile, shaking her hand whether she wants me to or not. “And this is Chris.”

“He your boyfriend?” Isabel asks.

I flush, glad I can’t see Chris’s face.

“He’s my friend,” I reply. “Do you have any family or friends around here who can help you?”

“No. The whole area’s empty,” she shrugs. “I just got left behind.”

“How?”

“My foster family left without me.” She bites down on a cookie, propping her legs up against the wall. “There are like, two people in the whole county around here so it’s not like it took long for everybody to disappear.”

“Have you been living off cookies and apples for a week?” I ask.

“There were French fries and hamburgers and stuff at first,” she answers. “Then everything started getting yucky.”

I nod.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what’s happening everywhere.” I turn to Chris, who’s putting a few cookies in his backpack. “Don’t overdo it there, pal. Chocolate melts.”

He stuffs one more in his bag before shooting me a you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do look. I turn back to Isabel. “Look, we can’t leave you here alone,” I say. “We’re headed north. You can come with us.”

Behind me, Chris heaves a sigh.

“She’s a kid,” he mumbles.

“She’s coming with us,” I say, making it clear that I won’t take no for an answer. I’m not going to look back on my life a hundred years from now and have to remember that I left twelve year-old girl in the middle of an empty McDonald’s when the world ended.

“Seriously?” she says, looking surprised. “I can come with you?”

“Sure,” I smile. “You’ll be safe with us.”

“That’s debatable,” Chris remarks.

“Shut up, Chris,” I say.

Isabel suddenly jumps forward and hugs me around the waist. It takes me by surprise, since just a minute ago she was kicking Chris in the shins. Then again, I would be a little defensive, too, if I’d been hiding out in a dark kitchen for a week.

“Okay,” I say, squeezing her shoulders. “We should move. You up for this?”

“Totally!” she beams. “Where are you going?”

“The mountains,” I answer, not wanting to dump too much important information off on her. “It’s safe there.”

“That’s also debatable,” Chris says.

“Go away,” I say, shaking my head.

“Hey, I found these, too,” Isabel says, pulling open another drawer. There are some small water bottles inside. “Want some?”

I clap my hands together. “Water!” I exclaim. “Awesome. Good job, Isabel.”

We fit as many as we can into our packs. Isabel stuffs a few into a backpack she pulls from underneath the counter. It’s a pink with sparkly rhinestones all over the top. “Nice,” I comment.

“Thanks,” she replies. “It’s for school. I’m in sixth grade.”

“Wow.” We hop over the front counter, walking out of the McDonald’s. The fog isn’t as dense as it was during the early morning, but it’s still pretty cold. And wet. And depressing.

             “I haven’t been outside since it happened,” Isabel remarks, skipping along beside me. “There were a lot of weird people hanging around for a few days.”

             “What kind of weird people?” Chris asks.

             “Like gangsters or something,” she replies, making a face. “They came inside the McDonald’s and stole all the money from the cash register. Then they left. I didn’t want to go outside because I thought they might still be there.”

             “That was a good idea,” I say, sharing a concerned glance with Chris.